Two Left Feet
by ChaosandMayhem
Summary: It's a well-known fact that Sniper isn't much of a dancer, but Spy hasn't been one to ever let the facts get in the way. Light, fluffy Sniper/Spy. Oneshot!


Two updates in one day? IMPOSSIBLE.

Actually, yes it is, because I wrote this some months ago on Tumblr. A majority vote (okay like six people) said it would be a good idea to have it up here too so ta-dah!

_**I own nothing and if I did I would be swimming a pool of cash Scrooge McDuck style**_

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_**Two Left Feet**_

It was all Scout's fault, really.

The boy had come back the base with an armful of new records and a sudden, infectious need to groove. He holed himself up in the rec room with the record player, and had blasted record after record of the newfangled music that was playing on the airwaves these days.

It got so bad that Engineer finally put a stop to all the nonsense with his guitar, and Medic soon join in with his violin. The duo began a friendly competition against Scout's music, and a tipsy Demoman soon joined in by bellowing the entire tale of Beowulf at the top of his lungs, much to the surprise of the rest. Scout had begun to show off some dance moves in the midst of the air-space fiasco, when Heavy (who had been drinking…a lot) began to dance the Trepak, to the delight of Scout and the horror of Medic. Soldier took the helter-skelter dancing as a personal challenge and started a ridiculous sort of hoe-down, dragging Pyro into it.

Soon the entire RED base was shaking with merriment and mirth—save for Spy, who stood stiffly in the corner, and Sniper, who drank deeply from a beer bottle and watched the action with a wry smile.

It was two in the morning when things finally quietened down—Heavy carried the snoozing Scout up to his room ("Umph, leetle man needs to stay out of cookie jar!") and between Pyro, Engineer, and Demoman, the three managed to lug the completely sozzled Soldier upstairs as well, their laughter and chatter fading slowly into silence.

Medic bid Spy good night and made for the infirmary.

And then there were two.

Spy crushed a cigarette underfoot and eyed Sniper, smirking faintly. "Those are our teammates…and they are all idiots."

"Well, they're our idiots." Now that he had the couch to himself, Sniper stretched a bit, yawning. "They do have moves, though. Gotta give 'em that."

"And what about you, Lawrence?"

"Hmm?"

"What sort of moves do you 'ave?"

Sniper scoffed and gestured to his feet. "Two left feet, mate. Can't do anything wif 'em."

Spy arched his eyebrows. "Strange. I see a left foot and a right foot."

"Ya know wot I mean. I can't dance."

"Everyone can dance, Lawrence. Some…are just slightly better at it than others."

Sniper snorted and tilted his hat down over his eyes. "Yer talkin' nonsense, mate. Go ta bed."

"'ere. I will show you."

Sniper reopened one eye to peer at Spy. The Frenchman stood over him with a faintly fond smile, hand outstretched. "Ya daft or somethin'?"

"Non. I am going to teach you 'ow to dance."

"I don't dance." Sniper repeated it stubbornly.

"Not yet."

Spy moved over to the record player, and selected a record to play. When the music started, it was soft and lyric-less, carrying through the room in easy, gentle murmurs of instruments.

"Get on your feet."

There was an expectant air to Spy's tone, and Sniper knew there was no shaking him. He sat up and groaned before Spy grabbed his hand and hauled him to his feet. "Now," the Frenchman cleared his throat, "stand like this," he pushed Sniper's broad feet apart a few inches, "and put your 'and on my waist."

"Put me hand where?!" Sniper jumped backwards. "No, no, no, and no. I ain't touchin' ya anywhere near yer waist! And wot if someone comes back down and sees us clutchin' each other like-a couple of faggots?"

Spy rolled his eyes. "Every dance master 'ad to start somewhere, Lawrence, and that includes putting a 'and on a waist." He strode over to Sniper and slammed the Aussie's calloused palm onto his waist with surprising force. He arched his eyebrows as Sniper's ears went red. "And besides, our teammates are too inebriated to remember their own names, let alone register that either of us are, as you so succinctly put it, faggots."

"I ain't a faggot."

Spy withheld a smile at Sniper's childlike, pouty grumble. "Now, let's begin." He took up Sniper's free hand in his, holding it slightly. Spy adjusted his position, secretly reveling in the way Sniper burned beet-red at the contact.

"Yer drunk and daft and—"

"So are you. So this counts for nothing, because we are both drunk and daft and probably will not remember this tomorrow morning."

The music continued at a soft, steady pace, still without vocals, still as gentle as a lullaby.

Spy took one step to the left and Sniper followed his movements jerkily. Experimenting, the Frenchman stepped backwards and Sniper stumbled to follow, nails digging into Spy's waist out of nervousness. Spy grimaced. "Lawrence…"

"Wot? I'm doing whatcha—"

"Lawrence! You're putting far too much thought into this. I can see the gears grinding in your head and it's stressing me out. Relax. Do not think about your feet. Eyes on mine."

He started to move, but instantly Sniper's gaze shot down to his boots. Spy gave his hand a slight squeeze in reproach and the Aussie's bright blue eyes shot back up. "Sorry."

"What did I just tell you, mon ami?"

"…erm, somethin' about relaxin'."

"Oui. Look at me. Don't concentrate on your feet. Feel the music."

"Eh?"

"I said feel the music."

"Wot kinda French horseshit advice is that?"

"That," Spy pressed his tongue to his cheek as he slowly led them across the room in small circles, "is not French advice. It is advice from the masters of jazz themselves."

"Jazz, huh? Never took ya fer a jazz van."

"Yes, well, I never took you for someone who pissed in jars like a barbarian."

"That," Sniper retorted, not even noticing that his footwork was following Spy's effortlessly, "is a survival technique."

"A survival technique for barbarians." Spy corrected as he inched closed to Sniper.

On some unconscious level Sniper knew what Spy was doing, and snaked his arm around the smaller man's waist, pulling him into his body frame. "Well, so far it's worked fer me. M'not changing my habit just 'cause you think it's disgusting."

"Lawrence, mankind probably said the same thing to the first person to try and cook meat. And look where we've gotten now."

"I've eaten raw meat!"

"Oh, of course you 'ave—"

The music had ended, quite without notice, and still Spy and Sniper danced around the room, artfully dodging the mess the others had made earlier while somehow still keeping the banter up.

"M'just sayin', ya'd be surprised at wot the human body is willin' ta tolerate ta survive—"

"I'm sorry, I was under the impression that society 'ad advanced far enough that we didn't 'ave to constantly test the limits the 'uman body."

"Ya should be prepared fer any situation—"

"I am. I 'ave you."

Sniper stopped moving and Spy, realizing his uncharacteristic slip, coughed loudly. "Meaning that," he said seriously, "on the off-chance that a world-ending event occurs, all I 'ave to do to survive is stick to the survivalist—"

"Spook."

"What?"

"The music stopped."

"…so it 'as."

Spy relinquished his grip on Sniper's hand and at the same time the Aussie released Spy's waist. For a moment they stood, shuffling awkwardly and looking anything in the room except each other. Then Spy coughed again. "You are a quick learner, that much is certain. Perhaps we can make a Presley out of you yet. Bonne nuit, Lawrence."

"Spook," Sniper took a step forward, as if making to stop the Frenchman, but froze. "Uh…thanks. Yer pretty good at this. D'you…erm, think we could do this again?"

Spy inclined his head. "I would like that very much, Lawrence."

He vanished on the spot, leaving Sniper alone in the room, with only the faint scratch of a needle to puncture his thoughts.

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Light, awkward Spyper is the best kind of Spyper.

Hope you enjoyed!


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